why I said I wasn’t really here on holiday. Because it turns out that he’s my biological father.’
‘And you had no idea?’
‘Not until after my mother died, no. I mean, you hear of these “secret babies”—but you don’t expect to find out that you’re one of them.’
‘It must have been a shock for you,’ he said, sounding sympathetic. ‘You were meeting him for the first time the other night?’
‘Second,’ she said. ‘This time, I met his family.’
‘Ouch. Difficult for you,’ he said.
‘More difficult for them—this English girl appearing out of nowhere after thirty years and claiming to be related.’
‘We have warm hearts and big families over here. Give it time. They’ll get used to the idea.’ He reached over with his right hand and squeezed her hand. ‘You’re very brave to come all this way on your own. You told me about your mother, but you have no brothers, no sisters?’
‘Just me. And my dad—the man who brought me up, the man I’ve always thought of as my dad—died the year after I graduated.’
Orlando left his hand curled round hers. ‘So this man—your biological father—is now your only family.’
‘Something like that.’
‘So what about your friend, the one who’s a GP? Wouldn’t she come with you?’
‘She would have done—but she’s six months pregnant.’
The penny clearly dropped. ‘So no travelling.’
She shrugged. ‘There’s just me.’
‘Just you,’ he said softly.
She swallowed hard. ‘Except…Can I ask your advice?’
‘Of course.’
‘Bartolomeo said he’d just reached that age when he’s curious about what might have been—that’s why he tried to find Mum. But I think there’s more to it than that. He isn’t that old—he’s in his early fifties, the prime of his life. And yet he’s tiring easily, he’s pale and I’ve noticed that he gets a little out of breath when he walks. That’s not normal. So I’m thinking either a heart condition or maybe AML.’ Without examining him herself, she couldn’t give a proper diagnosis. But the symptoms she’d noticed were definitely worrying. ‘And I was wondering…maybe he wanted to find Mum to make his peace with her. Before…’
Her throat closed up and she couldn’t say the words.
Orlando clearly knew what she meant, because the pressure of his hand tightened briefly around hers. ‘It might be a post-viral illness—he might be recovering, not becoming sicker,’ he said. ‘But I think you need to talk to him about it. Be open about it. Get him to put your mind at rest.’
‘Or let me prepare for the worst.’
‘You,’ Orlando told her, ‘are looking on the dark side. It might not be what you think. You know as well as I do that the symptoms you listed apply to other illnesses that can be cured, or at least controlled. The breathlessness could be asthma—which can start at any age, so it could be recent and he’s not used to taking his inhalers yet.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Talk to him,’ Orlando advised. ‘And although my medical textbooks are in Italian so they won’t be much use to you, if you need them for research I can translate for you.’
‘That’s a very generous offer.’ She was glad that her sunglasses hid her need to blink back tears.
‘We’re friends. Well, maybe we’re more acquaintances, at the moment,’ he told her, ‘but we’re going to be friends. And friends look out for each other, yes?’
‘Thank you. Grazie.’
He smiled. ‘My pleasure, tesoro. And now I want you to stop worrying. Until you’ve talked to him and found more information, there’s nothing you can do. So relax. Enjoy the sunshine. Things have a way of working out.’
He squeezed her hand once more, then placed his hand back on the steering-wheel. This time he drove a little more sedately than he had from the airport. And then she noticed the music playing softly in the background. A string quartet: something she didn’t recognise, but it was soothing—and very pretty. ‘What’s the music?’ she asked
‘Vivaldi.’
‘It’s lovely.’
‘Well, of course. It’s Italian.’ He gave her a wicked look. ‘We do have more than just “O Sole Mio”, you know.’
‘You listen to mainly classical music?’
‘Depends on my mood. I’ll sing along with Lucio Battisti or Andrea Bocelli—or sometimes I just like the regularity of Vivaldi or Corelli in the background. Had I been a surgeon, I think I would choose this for the operating theatre.’ He paused. ‘And you?’
She shrugged. ‘Whatever’s on the radio. Something I can hum along to.’
‘If you want to change the music, help yourself.’
Jeremy had teased her about singing out of key: no way was she going to sing along in the car beside a man she barely knew. A man she was finding more and more attractive, the more time she spent with him. Today Orlando was wearing casual clothes—pale linen trousers and a white T-shirt—and yet he looked utterly gorgeous. Even more so than he had in a formal suit—because casual meant touchable.
And he’d just been holding her hand.
She gripped the edges of her sunhat to keep herself from temptation.
‘I’m glad you don’t have long hair,’ Orlando said.
Not what the rest of the world had said when she’d gone from hair that was almost waist-length to an urchin cut. ‘Oh?’
‘Because it’s beautiful outside,’ he said. ‘Beautiful enough to have the top down—but if your hair were long and loose, that wouldn’t be much fun for you.’
‘Is that a hint?’
‘Would you mind? I know it’s hot, but we’re not that far from Pompeii so you shouldn’t get a headache from the sun. Though I would advise you to remove your hat.’
She did as he suggested. ‘Prego.’
He pressed a button: moments later, the hood was down and folded away. Automatic. Impressive.
‘Now you’re showing off,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘It’s called “having fun”.’
When they reached Pompeii, Orlando put the hood back up, and took two bottles of water from the glove compartment.
‘You need to keep properly
